


To Choose A Side

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Fix-It, Madness, Time Travel, cersei continues to be cray af, prince oberyn rolling up in the club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-10-06 19:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: Whispers pick up speed, discussions are had, and lines are drawn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you caught them?” She asks, still fingering the bed linens.
> 
> “Caught them, Your Grace?” Baelish asks coyly, as if he doesn’t know who she is talking about. She thinks about ortolans, and how easy it is to crush a bird between your teeth.
> 
> “My brother Jaime and his whore, Sansa Stark.” She knows he is with her. There is something in the girl’s eyes—everyone else may see a silly little girl when she bats those pretty eyelashes and tosses her pretty hair, but Cersei can see it.
> 
> Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.

He’s not in his room. 

Jaime is not in his room, which means he didn’t sleep here last night, which means he slept  _ somewhere else.  _

Outside, dawn just barely flirts with the horizon, and it’s a shame, she thinks, that such a cold, austere place be granted such beauty out its window. There is no grand fit of anger in the quiet room, no goblets dashed against walls or furniture thrown about. No. Cersei Lannister sits in the bedchamber of the man she has loved her entire life, and  _ waits.  _

If he slept somewhere else, it is because he has a reason to. Her brother does not frequent whorehouses, nor winesinks. She has kept careful tabs on him all these years, just to be sure. It is the only thing that made their...separation somewhat bearable. He had not broken his vow to her. There had never been another woman. It was not good enough, but she can admit that it was better than what Robert offered her. Her fingers clench her goblet of wine so tight she wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered in her hand. 

He’s fucking the Stark girl. She knows it. 

She had had such grand plans for the girl. A Stark girl would be boring and staid, she would do her duty by Joffrey and bear whatever cruelties he threw her way because that is what Starks  _ do.  _ Hasn’t she heard Robert sing Ned Stark’s praises enough to know? She would cling to Cersei because there would be no one else, she would ensure it would be so, and Cersei would rule through her precious Joff and his docile wife, guiding them to greatness and glory. There had been a  _ plan,  _ and Sansa had been essential to that plan because the only other option is Margaery Tyrell, and she’ll be damned before her son marries a Highgarden slut and makes her his queen. A Lannister cousin would be better, but there are none of suitable age, and of course, the travesty that is the Baratheon girl cannot even be considered. 

It had to be Sansa. And now the little whore has gone and ruined it all for a taste of Jaime’s cock between her legs. 

Cersei’s lips flatten and her jaw quivers, in rage or agony, it hardly matters anymore. The urge to  _ destroy _ nearly overtakes her, but she restrains herself. There are better ways. The girl could’ve been queen, and now she’ll never be anything more than the stain she leaves behind when Jaime fucks away her maiden’s blood. 

Her fingers tap against the crystal and her eyes squeeze shut against the image. What she can’t understand is  _ why.  _ Why had he left her? Left her to Robert and his fists and his rutting cock and his cruel words. Left her to fend for herself in this snake pit of a keep, fighting off harpies and hanger-ons and greedy, greedy men who eat her with their eyes as if she couldn’t order them dead on the spot.  _ Why?  _ Why had he stopped loving her? 

“Your Grace—”

The goblet is launched through the air before she can check herself, shattering against the wall to the side of the doorway, where Petyr Baelish stands with little more than an eyebrow cocked at her display. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to startle you.”

“I don’t need to forgive you, Baelish,” she snarls, lips curled in a sneer. 

He bows his obsequious, pitiful little bow and she suddenly wishes she had another goblet to break against his smirking face. 

“As you wish, Your Grace. This is an...odd place to meet…” he wonders, stepping cautiously into the space, eyes roving but always coming back to land on her. Just as they should. 

“We were expecting another party, but unfortunately he could not make it.”

“So I see. And what would take this other party away from his bed so early in the day?”

She should know better by now, but she can’t help herself. After all, it’s only Littlefinger, and should he even  _ think  _ of turning on her, she’ll have Ilyn Payne remove for him the burden of his head. And so she sits on the edge of Jaime’s bed, running her hands over the crisply made sheets.

“He didn’t sleep in it last night,” she murmurs to herself. Jaime’s never been  _ tidy _ , though she supposes this chamber disproves that. But she would bet her life that when he rolls out of bed each morning, he kicks his sheets off, pushes them to the bottom of the bed, or leaves them in a tangle in the middle of the mattress as he always has, as long as she can remember. 

“Have you caught them?” She asks, still fingering the bed linens.

“Caught them, Your Grace?” Baelish asks coyly, as if he doesn’t know who she is talking about. She thinks about ortolans, and how easy it is to crush a bird between your teeth. 

“My brother Jaime and his whore, Sansa Stark.” She  _ knows _ he is with her. There is something in the girl’s eyes—everyone else may see a silly little girl when she bats those pretty eyelashes and tosses her pretty hair, but Cersei can see it. 

_ Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.  _

“Sansa?” She must give him credit, the man plays at surprise quite well. “I have heard nothing of the sort, Your Grace. Perhaps you—” 

“Be quiet,” she bites out, and moves to pour herself another goblet full of wine. She had had to order it to Jaime’s room herself, because he had none. Not even a carafe of mead. He’s a stranger to her, and she wants to  _ scream _ with the pain of it. 

She must think. Jaime and Sansa are undoubtedly involved. It must be more than a mere dalliance. She must serve some purpose, because what other appeal could she possibly hold over Cersei, his beloved twin, the other half of Jaime’s soul? Perhaps they seek to cuckold Joffrey? Is this punishment? To remove Cersei’s blood from the throne? Her jaw ticks. Absurd, she’s not the one in need of punishment. And besides, Jaime’s never had the head for plots. It must be the Stark girl. 

“You will remove the Starks from King’s Landing. Kill them, imprison them, run them off, I don’t care. I want them  _ gone _ . From our dear Lord Hand down to his bastard. I don’t want to see a  _ hair _ of them that’s not attached to a head on a spike.” 

“If I may, Your Grace—” he begins in his slimy wheedling voice, and she knows he’s going to caution her toward subtlety, toward listening and waiting, as he has done from the start of their partnership. But he is not the queen and this is not truly a partnership. One of them holds all the power, and the other is merely useful, until he is not anymore. 

“You may not. You have until the tourney ends, and then I will do this my way.” 

She leaves Jaime’s room without a second glance, shuddering in relief at leaving the cold, empty room behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this may seem out of character for Cersei and Littlefinger, who were only ever allies in the loosest sense of the word, but I think in the wake of Jaime's coldness and Cersei's sudden descent into craycray-hood, it absolutely makes sense for Baelish to swoop into that vacuum, and in the decades that have passed since then, we are going to assume he has risen up in her esteem to the likes of Qyburn. Still a servant, and he's still Littlefinger, so he's smarmy af, but he does her bidding and makes her feel powerful, so he's allowed to know a few secrets. 
> 
> Plus, she's cray so like, whatever. 
> 
> As for the posting schedule, we are approaching the territory where some gaps need to be filled, and some padding added here and there. Hopefully, it won't change much at least for the next few months, but just a head's up to you all, it could. 
> 
> We'd love to hear what you think, and stay posted for the next chapter in this portion of the series!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By morning, when she is less drunk, she will reconsider her requests—should she remember. She will carefully weigh the pros and cons of such an action, of trusting him to carry it out. She will think about changing her mind, will think about silencing him so he can’t turn against her. She will not. He hasn’t spent years cultivating her trust and paranoia to let it be thrown away now. 
> 
> After all, he is more than happy to make Sansa Stark disappear.

Lord Petyr Baelish is well aware that he may be one of the few souls to believe the king and queen phenomenally well-suited to each other. What one lacks in ambition, the other makes up for in spades. Where one has too much paranoia glinting in her eye, the other not quite enough. And yet they match each other toe to toe in so many other ways. Their agreement that their vows of marriage shouldn’t hold them to one bed, for example, though the King may not be aware of that fact. Then there’s their joint bloodlust, utter disdain for all things soft or gentle, and the complete  _ boorishness _ that exudes from every fiber of both their beings. 

Of course, the untrained eye would never see Cersei as anything other than the Mother incarnate. What facade she is capable of managing has grown thinner and more feeble with every passing day, and since the arrival of the Starks, near to non-existent. 

Cersei’s odd invitation had given him plenty to think over. Did it not suit him perfectly, the vitriol spewing out of her mouth would land her neck right on the block. She reminds him of Lysa, in truth.  _ This _ madness, however, will suit him far better than that fool of a woman ever had. He still cannot fathom how the cups had been swapped...

It matters not. Lysa was a weak-minded woman. Cersei is plenty strong, and surprisingly astute for a woman of such vivid paranoia, and she’s handed him everything he needs to see his plans through. Such plans to eliminate the Kingslayer have long been on his mind, ever since that blasted treaty had surfaced. An excellent opportunity, he had thought, to sow discord, to pave the way for ill will between the West and the North… And then every single agent he had dispatched, every sellsword he had hired, every dirty merchant… they’d all disappeared. Either his ravens went unanswered or bodies turned up, ran afoul of bar fights or fortuitous storms… 

He grits his teeth to think of it now, the brilliant facade the Kingslayer has managed to fool the world with, but he knows better. He knows that Jaime Lannister encouraged his brother to suss out which whores in his employ were tasked with the more delicate of information extractions, knows that Tyrion had fed him false information for  _ months _ leading to profit losses of an unacceptable margin regarding certain speculation projects he had in Essos. He knows that the brothers have conspired to create their own considerable network of informants,  _ built on the very backs that should have been spreading their legs to collect information for  _ him. 

Baelish has spent a very long time plotting how he would take down the Lannister family, almost as many years as he has been plotting for the Starks. And now, they’ve provided him with the very means to do both at once.

If only he had gotten to Sansa first. 

There’s no doubt in his mind that the kingslayer is fucking her. And he doesn’t even truly  _ mind,  _ not when it gives him so many incriminating avenues to work with. There’s her age, for one, though she really is quite beautiful. Even outpacing her mother, he would wager. Then there’s her father, and of course, the pending betrothal with the crown prince. Not to mention the Kingslayer’s vows, and his reputation as a man of dishonor. It would be the easiest thing in the world to spin a sordid tale of manipulation and perversion. He’s done it before, after all. If it worked on Brandon Stark, he fails to see why his brother would be any different. 

And Cersei...she’s dropped it all in his lap. 

By morning, when she is less drunk, she will reconsider her requests—should she remember. She will carefully weigh the pros and cons of such an action, of trusting  _ him _ to carry it out. She will think about changing her mind, will think about silencing him so he can’t turn against her. She will not. He hasn’t spent years cultivating her trust and paranoia to let it be thrown away now. 

After all, he is more than happy to make Sansa Stark disappear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters were posted today, so don't stop here! Apologies for the confusion, but I mixed up the posting order, and now everyone gets a freebie chapter xD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not have a reputation for friendliness, Kingslayer. In fact, aside from that moniker, it is almost as though you have not been in King’s Landing at all these past years for all the information that was to be had of you. I checked, you see, for years.” 
> 
> Jaime tries to catch Sansa’s attention, battling within himself whether he’d rather her come to his rescue or stay far away from the Dornish Prince with his fiery eyes and plunging neckline. “Should I be flattered?” He drawls, but he feels none of the confidence he projects. 
> 
> “I learned of your somewhat ironic diligence in your duties, and your affection for your younger brother. I heard of the distance between you and your sister where there had been none before, but that was all. And then the court traveled to Winterfell... a wasteland, to hear some call it.” Oberyn’s gaze falls on the pair of Starks with their heads bowed together. “My little snakes had so much to tell, then. You are fond of them.”

_ **j a i m e:** _

“Kingslayer,” a heavily accented voice drawls. 

“Prince Oberyn, I presume?” Jaime answers, voice equally affected with lazy impertinence, though he feels anything but lazy. He’d taken quite a risk all those years ago, sending that raven with those words, that signature, to this man. He hadn’t had much interaction with the Prince in his last life, but his ghastly death had been a tragedy all around. An alliance sundered, a brilliant military mind squandered. The beginning of the end of yet another Great House, the spark of yet another civil war which would claim his daughter in the end. Just another of his sister’s stupid and cruel games. And truly, who had won?

The prince is sumptuously dressed, with a decadent elegance that still manages to bare more skin than Jaime is quite used to seeing on fully dressed men in court. A battlefield, a whore house, on the march? Sure, he’s seen all manners of undress. But this is… indecent.  _ Sansa _ is in the capital. She’s a  _ child,  _ for all intents and purposes. Honestly, someone should get the man a gorget or something to cover up all that… torso. 

“You presume correctly, ser. I have waited many years to meet you face to face,” Oberyn meanders his way down the veranda, pausing at the rail that overlooks the courtyard for Jaime to join him. 

“I received a most curious letter many years ago. Among other things, it contained the names of the men who raped and murdered my sister and her children. It was signed ‘JL’. I wondered for many years, why would the Kingslayer offer me this information? Are these not his father’s loyal bannermen? Was it a trick? Some sort of game…?” Oberyn trails off, fingers ticking against the bannister. Jaime doesn’t say anything. It was no trick, no game, but it’s not his word that matters, and they both know it.

“I have had for so long a burning question for you, Jaime Lannister. You said in your letter you had failed your Queen.” Oberyn pauses, cocks his head, and Jaime wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake. No matter his letter, this man has no love for him. It is there in his eyes, flinty and burning. “Most would say you had failed your king. It seems a more obvious choice, considering. But you said queen, and you were not there on Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella.” 

“Other vows took precedence,” he says simply, his mind swirling with too many things. He had known Oberyn had arrived in the capital, vaguely. It hasn’t been on his radar of immediate issues, those mostly pertaining to his wife, his sister, Lord Baelish, Lord Varys, Lord Stark, and the brood of wolflings Jaime seems to have acquired. Still, he should’ve paid more attention to this particular arrival, should’ve consulted Sansa before the inevitable meeting. He had thought he had more time. In his last life, Lord Stark had been dead years before Oberyn would travel to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding. Robert isn’t even dead yet. It’s too soon. 

Of course, in his last life, Jaime had never sent that letter. 

He locks onto the fact that Oberyn refers to Rhaella with the respect she is due, the way most in the Baratheon court do not. “I failed Queen Rhaella in more ways than one, but she is not the queen I referred to,” Jaime says. It’s not logical, not really. Elia was never queen, and Rhaegar had died before his father and thus was never crowned. And yet he recalls the stubborn tilt of the Dornishwoman’s jaw when Aerys berated her, remembers the flash of her eyes when the king had scorned his granddaughter before the court. Elia had more regal grace in a single bone than Aerys had in his entire body. 

“She didn’t have the chance to rule, but your sister was a queen in spirit and bearing,” he says solemnly. He falls back into his default placid expression, eyes finding the middle distance and staying there, avoiding the Prince of Dorne’s gaze. It is all more than he had meant to divulge, but he had set himself on this course, and now he must see it through. Down below the Stark children lounge, Arya chasing a cat, and Jon and Sansa talking quietly. 

“They are strange children, I think, these children of Eddard Stark,” Oberyn says after a drawn out silence, leaning his hip against the bannister at Jaime’s side. Jaime, for his part, cannot decide if the conversation is going well or not. “The girl, Arya, she reminds me of my eldest, Obara. All kinetic motion and gangly limbs.” The girl in question lunges over a table and is off again, darting in and out of the archways after her cat. She looks up and sees Jaime, and waves exuberantly. Jaime waves back, unable to hide his smile. 

“You do not have a reputation for friendliness, Kingslayer. In fact, aside from that moniker, it is almost as though you have not been in King’s Landing at all these past years for all the information that was to be had of you. I checked, you see, for years.” 

Jaime tries to catch Sansa’s attention, battling within himself whether he’d rather her come to his rescue or stay far away from the Dornish Prince with his fiery eyes and plunging neckline. “Should I be flattered?” He drawls, but he feels none of the confidence he projects. 

“I learned of your somewhat ironic diligence in your duties, and your affection for your younger brother. I heard of the distance between you and your sister where there had been none before, but that was all. And then the court traveled to Winterfell... a wasteland, to hear some call it.” Oberyn’s gaze falls on the pair of Starks with their heads bowed together. “My little snakes had so much to tell, then. You are fond of them.” 

When Oberyn refocuses on him, Jaime doesn’t look away from Sansa and Jon, thinking. Oberyn Martell is a dangerous man to have as an enemy, but Jaime isn’t quite convinced he’d be much safer as a friend, either. They don’t  _ need _ Oberyn, but he is an asset that had been sorely wasted last time around. The breadth of his knowledge, if Tyrion’s subtle inquiries are anything to go by, rivals Tyrion’s himself, and his skill with the spear nigh unparalleled. Arya needs these lessons if she is to regain her old skill, and they need Dorne. No, he has no love for Dorne, and cannot forgive Ellaria Sand for her treachery, despite how Cersei may have earned it. But Myrcella is not in Dorne in this life, and will never be. He is sure Sansa would never allow it. Myrcella is not the child who needs him now. These children, his  _ goodsiblings _ , his kin... they need him, and they will need Dorne in the years to come. And besides, as loathe as Jaime is to put her in the path of that neckline, he is sure Sansa will much more appreciate potential allies than potential enemies. 

“What will you do with the knowledge I imparted?” He asks, unwilling to waver from the subject.  _ Friend or foe? Friend of foe?  _

“I have done it already, at least most of it. Surely you’ve heard of the Mountain’s death. There are songs about it,” the prince says with a dangerous glint of satisfaction in his eye. “What is left? I intend to exact revenge, just as you had suggested. But know this, Kingslayer. If the Mountain killed my sister, then your father gave the order. You wanted for Elia her vengeance, and she shall have it, in full. What say you to that?” 

_ What do you choose, Jaime Lannister? Golden Lion of Casterly Rock? Kingslayer, oathbreaker?  _

_ Husband.  _

“My stance remains, my Prince,” he says formally, eyes on his wife. “But I would ask a favor of you—”

“My vengeance is not for sale, Kingslayer. I shall have it with your blessing or no.” 

“This is a favor not for myself, but for her,” he says gesturing with his chin down at Arya.

“The wolfling? Ah...so my little snakes speak true?” Something sparkles in Oberyn’s eyes, and Jaime clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to tense.

“I think you’ll find her an interesting sparring partner,” he says instead. Oberyn watches as Arya pounces on the squirming cat, crowing in her victory, and hums. 

“Strange children indeed. They would love it in Dorne, I think. Tomorrow, I shall ask her to dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***NOTE*** a chapter was added between Cersei's and Oberyn, so hit ye olde 'previous chapter' button if you missed it! 
> 
> yaaaay for Oberyn! He's another favorite of ours and will be sticking around for a bit, just to keep things extra muddled xD It seems everyone in Westeros knows of Jaime's fondness for Starks, and not a one of them knows what to do about it. 
> 
> Also a big shout-out to all of our subscribers who have been leaving such amazing comments and speculations! We read all of them and may occasionally borrow an idea or two (with a shout-out, of course) in the coming days! Thank you thank you <3
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something going on, I think,” she confesses quietly. “She’s been getting these awful nightmares at night, the kind where she wakes up screaming. It’s so bad that Jaime—”
> 
> Jon stops short, eyes narrowing. “Jaime what.” 
> 
> “Well, it’s just, he makes her feel better, you know?” No. No, he does not know. 
> 
> “From her nightmares?” 
> 
> “Well, just the once… You can’t tell her I told!” 
> 
> Jon will kill him. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Arya makes a friend, and Jon doubts his.

Arya Stark reminds him of the children of the Water Gardens, despite the fact that she is on the cusp of being too old to attend the Gardens herself. It is something in her lack of care, the unrepentant lack of self-consciousness, the absolute inability to demure. It is so very Dornish, he almost wonders if  _ she _ is the bastard Ned Stark sired in Dorne. A few whispers here and there and he was pleasantly surprised to learn that Ned Stark had employed Syrio Forel to train her in the art of water dancing, alongside the sword lessons from the Kingslayer himself. 

_ That _ had been a most surprising development. In truth, when Doran had heard rumors of some kind of... _ something _ happening in Winterfell, Oberyn had been hoping for something slightly more risqué than  _ sword  _ lessons—at least the literal kind—particularly where Lannisters are involved. Any excuse to flame the fires of hatred that that name evokes, he would take. 

But the Kingslayer is not what he expected, even with his reports. Even as a child, Jaime Lannister had a kind of careless arrogance—nothing on his sister, of course, the beast—and it had been readily apparent the many other times they had crossed paths when Elia had been princess. But the man he is now has nothing of the haughty superiority that the rest of his family exudes. Jaime Lannister went from being a legend and a tale of warning to being forgettable. His spies spoke of how the man did nothing but his duty, day after day. No frivolous trips into the city, no whoring, no vices, no  _ rumors _ . He rarely spoke, and only when directly prompted by the king, or during the rare times he and his brother talked in public. Oberyn will forever be curious as to what happened during the long night talks those two shared. There are rumors about the power the Imp wields, about who truly controls Casterly Rock, but Oberyn knows Tywin Lannister’s hatred for his youngest well enough to know he would never grant Tyrion that kind of power. Which begs the question why  _ has  _ the imp been so instrumental in the politics of the West? There is another reason that Tywin lets him do as much as he does, and Oberyn has known since he received that raven so many years ago that that reason is Jaime Lannister. 

Midthought, Oberyn suddenly careens his body to the right to avoid a blow from a...tourney sword. 

“I  _ said,  _ it’s impolite to stare! Never seen a girl with a sword before?” 

His grin widens. Oh yes, Arya Stark has the heat of the Dornish Sun in her veins, if not in her blood, then certainly in her soul. He takes up a fighting stance, with nothing more than his bare hands to help him. Eyes wide, the girl scrambles into place, a hesitant smile growing on her face as well. 

“You want to fight me?” 

“Oh yes. You see, I’ve heard rumors of a ferocious wolf cub haunting the halls of the Red Keep. I’ve traveled all the way from Dorne to see for myself if they’re true.”

She launches into a flurry of attacks, and Oberyn ducks and dodges around them all, only batting away her the flat of her sword with his hand once. “Dorne!” She gasps and skitters back. “I know you! You’re the Red Viper!” 

He takes a gracious bow, and launches forward to land a gentle bop on her forehead with his hand. “At your service, my lady. My point.” 

“I’m not a lady! I’m going to be a knight, and squire for Jaime just like my brother Jon!” Oberyn tucks away that familiarity for future review, though in truth it only adds to what Oberyn already knows to be true. He leaps forward again, and laughs as the devilish child manages to escape his grasp by a hair. 

“Syrio has you chasing cats, I saw? An effective teaching maneuver.”

“You know him? He’s teaching me water dancing!” 

It’s at once beautiful and tragic how quickly this child has grown to trust him. She reminds him of his own daughters, his Elia. But this is not a safe place to trust a strange man who knows how to charm women of all kinds, particularly since Oberyn is not arrogant enough to believe he is the only such man in this place (just the most charming of them). They continue their jovial dance, Oberyn gladly taking the bruises that will blossom in order to grant her a few hits now and then. Not many, mind you, but enough to keep her inspired. 

“He has taught me a few things over the years as well. I am nothing if not an avid learner. And you, Arya Stark, seem to be a kindred spirit. Tell me, have you ever fought with a spear?” 

She hops back, chest heaving for breath. The hope in her eyes is heartbreaking, but not as much as her next words. “Did Jaime ask you? He told me he’d find me more teachers. Tyrion is teaching me about war strategy and Jaime and Syrio spar with me. Jaime’s even training me with my left hand!” 

What is it about Jaime Lannister? What is it about the  _ Starks?  _ Does Lord Stark know about the lengths the Kingslayer is going to for his children? Oberyn can understand a fondness for his squire; everything he has heard about the boy says he was nearly as diligent in his duties as his Ser is, and perhaps that could extend to an openness with the boys family, but surely not to this extent. And not to the children of the man that branded him with such infamy. It doesn’t make sense, but he will not beg his answers from Arya Stark. This young girl has no business being caught in the web of his own intrigue, and besides, there is very little Oberyn loves more than teaching a young girl how to hurt those who would hurt her. How different history would be had his sister learned such lessons. 

“He did indeed. You’ve got quite a friend in Ser Jaime. He said I would find you an interesting sparring partner, and I must say, you have not disappointed. Tonight is the feast to begin Jon Arryn’s tourney. Will you grant me a dance?” 

The girl winces and makes a face. “Ugh, you’d be better off asking my sister, Sansa.  _ She’s  _ a real lady. I’d much rather spar.” He laughs and nods his head in answer.

“Very well then, tonight I shall dance with your sister, and tomorrow we shall dance with our spears.” 

“_Arya!_ You promised Father you wouldn’t run about the Keep without guards anymore!”

“Jon! This is the Red Viper! He’s going to teach me how to use a sword!”

Oberyn gives Jon Snow a once over. Up close, he’s even more pretty than he had seemed from afar, but Oberyn cannot see any of his rumored Dayne heritage in him. His build does not match Arthur’s, nor his coloring Ashara’s. He wonders if his opinion would change after seeing him wield a sword. He shows quite some skill, according to rumors, though he supposes not every skilled swordsman in Westeros is related to the Sword of the Morning. 

The boy looks caught between embarrassment—no doubt from his sister’s charming lack of tact—and an eagerness with which Oberyn is no stranger. He  _ is _ something of a legend, after all. 

“Ser Snow, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.” If he thought he could get away with it, he would’ve kissed the boy’s hand, just to see if they blush as prettily up in the North as he imagines they would. Neither Stark sister seems likely to blush in his presence any time soon, though given a few years’ time, he’d be willing to test that. 

“My prince, uh, the honor is mine?” He says, somewhat shakily, looking to Arya for help but getting an eye roll instead. She is  _ so _ like his daughters. “I’m no knight, though.”

“Aren’t you?” Oberyn quips back cheekily. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve done a most gallant job guarding your charges, truancy notwithstanding,” he says, this time raising an eyebrow at Arya. In spite of himself, he finds he is actually  _ worried _ to know that she was supposed to be traveling with a guard, and hadn’t been. He’s not typically one for overbearing paternity, but in this keep, it is unwise to take such chances. 

He looks back at Jon Snow and is delighted to see that his Northron skin absolutely  _ does _ blush. 

“The Old Gods take no knights, and I do not worship the Seven,” Snow explains, missing Oberyn’s point completely. 

“A shame, for Ser Snow has such a nice ring to it.”

“And Father said you could swear to the Old Gods just like Domeric Bolton! You could be one of the first knights of the North! We’ll make Sansa write a song about you!”

He raises an eyebrow at Jon and grins. “I shall leave you to your plans. And please, my lady, don’t forget that dance.”

***

“You shouldn’t have run off like that, Arya. Father says it’s dangerous. Especially with men like  _ him _ walking around.” 

Arya rolls her eyes. “He’s not dangerous, he’s Prince Oberyn, the Red Viper—”

“The one they call the most dangerous man in Westeros? That Prince Oberyn?” 

“Yeah, but he’s not dangerous to  _ me,  _ he wants to train me! Jaime asked him to!”

Jon frowns. He’s glad that Ser Jaime has taken to his family so well, but at the same time, it’s a little discomfiting. He’s so different now than he was when Jon was here as his squire. In the privacy of his own head, he can even admit that he’s a little jealous of his sisters, who seem to hold all of Ser Jaime’s attention whenever he is with them. It’s strange, but sometimes Jon could swear it’s like Ser Jaime has known them both for years…

“Still, Arya, you didn’t know that when you started talking to him, and we should double check anyway. Father’s got men on the lookout for poisoners and the Red Viper is the most famous poisoner in Westeros. Just promise me you’ll give me a little warning before sneaking away next time?” Arya scowls but nods, before brightening and picking up the tourney sword again. 

“Wanna go a few rounds?” He doesn’t even bother pretending reluctance. 

An hour later, the two of them are covered in sweat and grinning like loons. 

“You’re getting better.”

“Jaime said I can start practicing with Needle soon, for real. Sparring and everything!” 

He ruffles her hair proudly as they walk back to the Tower of the Hand. “Where’s Sansa, anyway? She’s the one that needs protecting,” Arya says, and there’s something in her voice that has him frowning. That’s two now, one warning about Sansa from his Father and one from Arya. Only Arya’s not the type to worry about the kind of danger that women of court can pose to each other, and he hardly think Father would’ve shared that with her. 

“Why do you say that? Did something happen?” Arya doesn’t answer, and when he looks over, he’s surprised to find her biting her lip. “Arya?” 

“There’s something going on, I think,” she confesses quietly. “She’s been getting these awful nightmares at night, the kind where she wakes up screaming. It’s so bad that Jaime—”

Jon stops short, eyes narrowing. “Jaime  _ what.”  _

“Well, it’s just, he makes her feel better, you know?” No. No, he does not know. 

“From her nightmares?” 

“Well, just the once… You can’t tell her I told!” Jon will  _ kill him.  _

“What do you mean, Arya? Why’s he got anything to do with this?” 

“She yells out his name sometimes, when she’s sleeping. So she had this super awful nightmare a few weeks ago and she wouldn’t wake up, but I didn’t want Father to come in and hear her screaming the Kingslayer’s name, so I just… went and got him! And it worked! She didn’t have a nightmare for a couple days, at least, not that I could tell. It’s no big deal, honest! I was there the whole time, he just held her hand, it was gross.” 

Jon’s teeth grind and he says nothing as they walk toward the tower. He had known that Ser Jaime’s bond with his sisters was close, but he’d never thought he’d do something like  _ this.  _ He’s too honorable, in his strange way, no matter  _ what _ Father says. That couldn’t have changed. 

“We need to tell Father this is happening—”

“You  _ can’t!  _ You’ll ruin everything, Jon! Father will kill him, and then my sword lessons will stop and Sansa won’t ever sleep again, and she’ll go back to being awful all the time with her stupid sewing and she’ll never marry Jaime and go and live with him and let me come, too!” 

“What? Arya! He’s Father’s age! Sansa’s not going to  _ marry  _ him! She’s supposed to marry the Prince!”

“Ugh, gross, as if! She  _ hates  _ him, even more than me! And if I have to go back home, Mother’s going to make me marry someone awful, like some Karstark or,  _ ugh,  _ a Bolton! And I’ll never get to train and everyone will expect me to mend their trousers all the damned time—”

“ _ Arya!  _ Hey! Stop, look at me for a second. If you don’t want to marry someone, we’ll figure it out. Father won’t make you. And if he tries, we’ll run away to Braavos and be sellswords.” 

“You’d never run away from your duty,” she says sulkily, and he can’t help but grin. 

“I’m your guard, I have to go wherever you do, remember?” 

“You promise? You won’t make me live in the Dreadfort all by myself with the Leech Lord? You’d come to Casterly Rock with us?”

Jon sighs. “They’re not going to get married, Arya. Ser Jaime is in the Kingsguard. He can’t take a wife, or inherit any titles. But if you’re going to follow Sansa anywhere she goes, of course I’ll be there. At least that way I can keep an eye on both my charges,” he says, nudging her shoulder. She grins a little and he smiles back, but inside, his brain is still whirring. 

What is going on between his sister and Ser Jaime? Is that why the Queen is so upset with Sansa? Everyone knows she hates Ser Jaime almost as much as she hates Lord Tyrion, if not more. Maybe she’s angry that Sansa makes Ser Jaime happy? But why would that even be? She’s still just a girl, even if she’s pretty for one. Ser Jaime’s never been interested in that kind of thing, for all his japing about it. And why would Sansa call out for him while having a nightmare? 

He took a vow to protect Sansa and Arya with his life if he has to, and he intends on keeping that vow, even if it means fighting the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the absence last week! Life happened =\ Going forward, updates may be slightly spottier, as we have a few holes that need filling, and we are approaching the end of our buffer. We're nearing the end of this first arc, however, so that's exciting! 
> 
> comments and kudos give us life <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya’s probably wrong. Maybe Sansa just thinks of Ser Jaime as an uncle, of sorts. He did practically raise Jon. That would explain why she wanted him after a nightmare, right? He’s a knight, he’s the knight. Sansa’s always dreamed of a knight in shining armor to whisk her away from the monsters of Old Nan’s stories. Maybe that’s all this is. 
> 
> He doesn’t want to hurt Ser Jaime, and he’s fairly certain attempting to will wind up with Jon dead, but if his sister’s honor demands it, well… 

** _j o n:_ **

Sitting on Sansa’s bed, Jon is sure now that she’s hiding something from him. He saw her enter the tower, spoke to the guards stationed by her rooms and at the entrance to the Hand’s Tower to make sure she didn’t leave before he could speak with her. 

And yet, she’s not here. The grasping tendrils of panic seeping up his throat threaten to suffocate him, but he still waits. Arya is training with Ser Jaime, and despite the way that galls him right now, at least he knows where she is. Sansa however…

This isn’t the first time she’s simply disappeared. He’s her sworn shield, her  _ brother,  _ and still she doesn’t trust him. How could Ser Jaime do this? Sansa’s matured in the past few moons, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean she’s an  _ adult.  _ It doesn’t mean that Jaime’s not old enough to be her father. She’s of marriageable age, he supposes, or will be soon, but this feels…

Jon swallows as his fists clench on his thighs. If he wanted to marry Sansa, if he actually  _ loved  _ her, Jaime would’ve done this the honorable way. But there is no honorable way, even were he to go through Lord Stark. Ser Jaime  _ can’t marry,  _ so no matter what is going on, Sansa’s honor will be forfeit. He drums his fingers on his leg and tries not to think about it. 

Arya’s probably wrong. Maybe Sansa just thinks of Ser Jaime as an uncle, of sorts. He  _ did _ practically raise Jon. That would explain why she wanted him after a nightmare, right? He’s a knight, he’s  _ the  _ knight. Sansa’s always dreamed of a knight in shining armor to whisk her away from the monsters of Old Nan’s stories. Maybe that’s all this is. 

He doesn’t want to hurt Ser Jaime, and he’s fairly certain attempting to will wind up with Jon dead, but if his sister’s honor demands it, well… 

The door opens, and Sansa slips in with her back to him, gently closing the door and sighing. 

“What is going on with you and Ser Jaime, Sansa? Where have you been sneaking off to?”

** _S a n s a:_ **

She and Varys need to find a better system, something that works better than meeting in passageways and shadows whenever one sends word to the other. There are only so many times she can escape Septa Mordane’s watchful eye during the day before it attracts any more attention than it already has. Sansa’s suffered one conversation about her behavior since they’ve traveled to King’s Landing, and she isn’t looking forward to a second.

There’s no excuse for her to be wandering through the halls of the Keep, not anymore. Her lack of fawning all over the golden prince has had the opposite effect and has only captured his and his mother’s interest, making it more difficult to slip into the shadows.

That doesn’t even touch the way her focus seems to fixate on trying to decipher whatever it is Littlefinger is up to when he moves from room to room, no doubt executing some plan.

She lacks the ability to know what he’s planning - to use it to their advantage in this life. She knows him though- remembers his lessons, his  _ games _ , and Sansa can only hope that it’ll give them enough of an advantage to prevent his access to power. Her husband has already taken away one potential route by switching his poison, but she knows Baelish. And she knows he will find another way as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

Or two, or three...Every and any way in his preconceived world where everything has happened at once.

Exhaustion settles heavy in her bones, and it’s something Sansa cannot afford to feel. There’s too much to do, too much to accomplish in King’s Landing, despite how much she wants to leave. How much she wants to go  _ home _ . To go back North—

To go to Jaime.

The door to her chambers is currently out of the line of vision for the guards currently stationed outside them – not particularly helpful for her father’s cause, but incredibly convenient in the moment – and Sansa slips through them with quiet ease, making sure the heavy door makes no noise as it slowly clicks shut. She rests her forehead on the cool wood and gives a small sigh.

Jon’s voice breaks through the silence, and Sansa smothers any outward sign of her startled surprise before she turns to face her brother. Her mind is rapidly running through any possible excuse or story that could be viable as she crosses the room slowly, and takes a seat next to Jon—her hand reaching out to grasp his fingers much like she had that day at Castle Black.

This time in her previous life she never would have sat so close to Jon Snow, never would have grabbed his hand for comfort like a true sibling would have, and not for the first-time Sansa feels hot shame start to crawl up her neck.

“Ser Jaime insisted that if he was going to teach Arya sword skills then I had to learn as well.” There’s a pause, though she doesn’t doubt Jon can hear some of the mild distaste that coats her words. “I’m not...I haven’t picked it up as easily as Arya has.”

** _j o n:_ **

He had known that Sansa was getting sword lessons as well, he supposes. At least, that’s what he’d been  _ told,  _ but he sort of figured that had just been a time or two. He’d never actually  _ seen  _ her practicing with Arya. She was always working on her embroidery, or, more lately, reading books. Girl things. 

He takes her hand in his and turns it over, and it’s true, there are calluses there, in all the same places he and Robb had had to bandage as boys. 

He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “If you’d just  _ tell _ me, Sansa. I could help, or hells, even if I just know where to find you, it’d make things easier,” he chastens with a sigh. He’s her big brother, but he’s never felt much like it. She had cried when he left all those years ago, but her letters had tapered off until she had stopped replying altogether. Robb had often complained that Sansa had gotten boring and girly, but then, when he arrived back home in Winterfell… she’d practically launched herself at him to hug him. 

He’d missed most of her childhood, most of  _ everyone’s _ childhood, but she wasn’t anything like Robb’s letters. She’s more serious than him, most days, and even Arya’s stopped sniping with her these past few months. She’s only three-and-ten, but she’s an adult. 

He narrows his eyes. She’s a damn good liar, too.

“And that’s why he comes and goes from your bedchamber every time you have a nightmare, I take it?” he says standing and crossing his arms. 

“You know I have to tell Father about this, right? If he’s taken advantage of you, somehow…”

** _s a n s a:_ **

It’s a conversation ahead of its time, even if Jon could have no way of knowing. But Sansa still remembers the arguments, frustrations as they fought to take their home back, and in trying to get him to see some reason after being named King in the North. But this is different from apologizing about Littlefinger and about the Knights of the Vale after the fact. This is...

What proof does she have other than her own memories? Jaime’s memories? It’s too soon yet, and casting the net any wider will only borrow the future’s problems.

“I  _ am _ telling you,” Sansa says teasingly, as she forces the corner of her mouth upwards into the start of a smile. “Sometimes I train with Arya and Ser Jaime, or I’ll go to the Godswood.” It’s not a lie in this life either, not truly. If she needs to avoid the Prince, it provides a perfect spot for respite.

Omissions and half-truths. Sansa bites back the uncomfortable feeling—this is  _ Jon,  _ but it’s not. He’s her brother, will always be her brother, but he hasn’t lived through that past yet, and hopefully never will.

It’s too soon to say anything. Especially with him, and their family, still in King’s Landing. Still near Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.

And it’s past time to talk with Arya, Sansa thinks at Jon’s next words, and she fights back the urge to grab at his arm and pull him back to her side to finish the conversation.

Ten and three, she reminds herself carefully. Ten and three.

“What do you mean? Arya was just trying to help and Ser Jaime did what he took an oath to do. He was the  _ perfect knight _ .”

It’s an imitation of what she once believed as a child, but a part of her remains glad that neither her husband, or Arya, are present to hear this.

** _j o n:_ **

Jon instantly blushes, because,  _ no _ , not having that conversation. Only, he can’t  _ not,  _ can he? If Ser Jaime has been  _ going into her room at night— _

“Sansa, you  _ know _ it’s not proper to have people in your bedchamber at night, knight or no. If word got out, it wouldn’t matter how honorable his intentions were,” and Jon has some doubts about that, though he doesn’t know how to say such a thing to his sweet sister, “your reputation would suffer for it, Sansa. You’ll end up married to some crotchety old fart far away. You deserve better than that. Ser Jaime should treat you like it.” 

The worst bit of it is, is that Sansa knows all this. He  _ knows _ she used to harp on Arya about this kind of thing, after all. How  _ unmarriageable  _ she was, how no man would want to marry someone so unladylike. So what is she playing at? And actually—

“What were you dreaming of anyway? You scared Arya something fierce, you know.”

** _s a n s a:_ **

Her brother’s blush shouldn’t be nearly as amusing as it is, but her words have hit their intended mark and if it distracts him or sends him down a different route of questioning it will be a small victory. 

Still she keeps most of her thoughts to herself, none of them will bring Jon any comfort. For all that she remembers, for all of the lessons of just how  _ honorable  _ the South truly is, it’s hard to remember that none of it has happened yet. Her standing, her family’s standing has not yet been labeled as traitors to the crown and if all goes as it’s meant to, it won’t. But her husband, perhaps the least likely of all people in her father’s eyes with regards to  _ honor _ , it one of the only people she trusts. 

Another secret, for now. 

Honor will only get us so far down here Jon, she wants to tell him, she wants to warn him. Believing others capable of maintaining the same beliefs, that they would adhere to the same code of honor was exactly what had gotten her father’s head separated from his neck, and she’ll be damned if he father’s head is replaced by her brother’s. “Arya was here, and Ser Jaime did treat me like it. You know him Jon.”

She sighs, as if in defeat. “But I will be more mindful.” Sansa doesn’t elaborate any further.

It’s not necessary, and this way it isn’t an outright lie. 

“Monsters and ghosts.” Another vague truth, and Sansa gives her brother a half smile despite the heaviness of those particular memories. “I think the stories of the Red Keep spooked me, that’s all.”

  
  


** _j o n:_ **

Jon sighs, not certain how else to impress upon his sister the impropriety of the situation. Of course she can’t see how Ser Jaime could be anything other than the very image of chivalry, but their father has always kept his girls in the dark, and the boys hadn’t been much better off. Jon’s first moons in King’s Landing had been eye-opening, indeed. 

He vows then to talk to Ser Jaime about it. He  _ will  _ answer for his actions, no matter the regard Jon holds for him. Sansa might agree to be more mindful, but that will hardly do much good if she doesn’t even know what she should be mindful  _ of.  _

Jon presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead, and wonders what ghost stories could be scary enough for  _ Arya _ to fetch an actual knight to fend them off. Then again, Jon had been Ser Jaime’s squire for years. If anyone knew about nightmares… perhaps he wasn’t the worst choice, after all. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s not family, Jon might’ve even felt relief at knowing Jaime had been looking out for Sansa. 

As it stands, there’s a conversation to be had.    
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait folks! But we're not going anywhere just yet. Thank you for your patience!


End file.
